


Uncertainty Principle

by Jayne L (JayneL)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Human Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:33:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayneL/pseuds/Jayne%20L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just checking." Dean sounds tired. He sounds accusing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncertainty Principle

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 8.23.

It's the middle of the night--later, even; small hours, stark and still--and Dean is standing in the gap of Castiel's open bedroom door. Against the dim, ambient light from the sconces in the hallway, he's largely undefined: a dark, solid shape casting a shadow into the dark, stifled space of Castiel's room. When Castiel rasps his name, sleep-slurred and confused, he says, "Just checking." He sounds tired. He sounds accusing.

Castiel had been asleep. Shallowly, and restlessly, and some small part of his mind had remained stubbornly aware and unsatisfied, but _asleep_. For something so very necessary to him since his Fall--for all that most of his waking hours are spent feeling exhausted, in mind or body or both--sleep has yet to come easily to him. And yet, the slightest thing can wake him effortlessly. "On what?"

Dean doesn't answer. For a long moment, he doesn't move. Just before he steps fully into the room, he takes a sharp, deep breath; just as Castiel rouses enough to recognise uncertainty in the lines of his body--and urgency, too, a grasping kind of energy in the way he moves--Dean pushes the door fully closed, shutting out the light.

Castiel is abruptly, utterly awake. His imperfect human eyes strain to adjust to the darkness. He's disoriented; he can sense Dean moving in the small space of the room, but can't place him within it, can't place himself in relation, can't judge what Dean's doing or what Dean wants him to do. Anxiety threads up his throat. He sits up, groping blindly for the lamp on his bedside table.

Dean catches his arm in mid-air. Castiel startles violently, but Dean's grip is firm: he's caught and held, Dean's hand sliding warmly down his arm to close hot fingers around his wrist. "Dean--" he says, too loudly, as Dean's weight presses down beside his hip on the mattress, as Dean's closeness builds like static beneath the bare skin of his chest.

"I never know." Dean's voice is low and hoarse, unmoored in the black. Accusatory, still. "I never know, man. It's been weeks, and I still--I _never know_ if I'm gonna find you bleeding out or packing your stuff or already fucking _gone_ \--" He breaks off with another sharp inhale, as if to breathe his words back in. He pushes Castiel down onto his back and bends his arm to pin his wrist to the bed up by his shoulder.

The static thrumming through Castiel breaks into a wash of heat that prickles his skin and pools low inside him. He wants to tell Dean he has nowhere to go. He wants to tell Dean that he barely knows where he _is_ , anymore: in the world, in his body. In whatever remains, these days, of God's intentions. He wants to tell Dean to stop expecting things of him. He wants to tell Dean to tighten his grip.

He reaches up with his free hand, half expecting Dean to catch it, too; but it finds Dean's shoulder unimpaired, and although Dean's breath stutters when Castiel touches him, he does nothing to shake him off. He's tense, his muscles corded, and Castiel digs in his fingertips to the point of what must be pain. Makes a fist of his hand that's pressed to the bed and feels the flexion of his wrist under Dean's hold, feels Dean's hold flex around it.

He can see Dean now, barely: a shifting, familiar outline above him, a faint glint from his eyes. Castiel imagines Dean watching him, his eyes thin green rims around black-full pupils, fixed on the slow curl and release of his fingers. He imagines that Dean can see much better than he can. He imagines that Dean can see him clearly, despite the dark.

Dean's shoulder sways and then Dean's mouth is on his, a soft press of just-parted lips, strangely hesitant in relation to the ferocity of his grip on Castiel's wrist. Disoriented again, Castiel runs his hand along Dean's shoulder, rakes it up into his hair and down the back of his neck, splays it wide on the broad, shifting strength of his back; parts his own lips and coaxes his tongue into Dean's mouth, as if to taste the sound he makes; tries to ground himself on as much of Dean as he can touch. Palming low on Dean's back, he presses down until Dean curses and stretches alongside him, hooks his leg over Castiel's, aligns their bodies until they fit together. Places them both.

Dean murmurs fractured things as he drags his mouth down the line of Castiel's jaw, down the length of his throat, _Cas--_ and _just--_ and _I need--_ He tongues at the beat of Castiel's pulse, and it trips and pounds. His free hand skims down Castiel's chest to pluck at the blanket twisted around his hips. When Castiel rucks up the hem of Dean's t-shirt and smooths his hand onto the skin just above the waistband of his shorts, Dean's whole body jolts, his hard cock nudging Castiel's hip. "Cas--" he gasps, and rocks against him again, and tugs the blanket loose, and slips his hand beneath it.

Dean trails his fingers over Castiel's dick through the fabric of his boxers, gentle and sure and almost too much. Castiel's body aches for the touch, even as his mind insists he has no context for it, he's never wanted it, _never with Dean_. But his thoughts feel affected, rehearsed, and his body wants despite them. _He_ wants.

Castiel can't trust his mind. There are dark spaces inside his head, too.

Maybe this isn't the first time they've done this.

A sound escapes him, thin and frantic. Dean freezes. "Cas?"

Castiel skates his free hand up the line of Dean's spine, clutches at his nape, pulls him down. His aim is wrong, sightlessly misjudged: he kisses the corner of Dean's mouth first, clumsy and edged with teeth; corrects and fits them together again, better, again. Angling his body into Dean's, he makes another helpless sound at the rub of his cock against Dean's, and Dean's hands tighten painfully--forbiddingly--around his wrist and on the spur of his hip. "Don't," Castiel says into his mouth, desperate, because he thinks Dean's about to push him away; "Don't stop, don't stop--" because Dean is all he has to orient himself in the dark.

"Jesus," Dean breathes, "Jesus, Cas," and he works his hand into Castiel's boxers and wraps it around his dick. Relief frays Castiel's nerves; he pushes raggedly into Dean's fist, dripping precome, smearing himself all over Dean's broad palm and long fingers. As if grasping for purchase, his hand on the bed spasms, curling tight and splaying wide, and Dean's hand clenches briefly again around his wrist. "Jesus," Dean repeats, his voice a wreck, and he lifts Castiel's hand from the bed and takes two of his fingers into his mouth.

Castiel moans brokenly as he comes, slicking his own belly and chest, slicking Dean's hand as he strokes him through it. When he's left gasping, Dean lets him go and shifts his weight; Castiel feels his hand skim through the mess on his skin, then away. When Dean groans, the sound vibrates around Castiel's fingers. "Dean," Castiel says, his own voice thick in his throat, and he pulls his fingers from Dean's mouth. Reaching down, he slips them between Dean's where they're curled around his own dick now, wet with Castiel's come and jacking roughly.

"Ah, fuck, _Cas_ \--" And Dean pulses onto Castiel's hip, his thigh, his spent cock. He presses his forehead to Castiel's temple, his breath panting warmly over his neck. He shivers as he finishes, then falls still.

_Just checking._ Castiel lies beneath the heat of Dean's body, fits his palm to the curve of Dean's skull, and wonders if this is what Dean intended when he rose in the middle of the night and came to stand at his door. Castiel's wrist is sore, likely bruised, from Dean's grip; his skin is flushed with heat, damp with sweat and semen. The evidence of need--of Dean's desperation to test, to prove, to _know_ \--sinks like an anchor into his bones.

Dean noses softly at the hinge of his jaw and mutters, "I'm such a selfish fuck." He sounds accusing. He sounds lost.

Castiel finds small rooms confining and loses his bearings in the dark. He leaves his door propped open at night, and sleeps poorly regardless. He can't trust his mind, and is uncertain whether Naomi is to blame, or humanity, or himself. He lies with a man he remembers murdering a thousand times over, and is uncertain of the age of his desire.

Castiel slides his hand down Dean's arm, circles his fingers around his wrist, and holds fast.


End file.
